UC-NRLF 


$B    E73    M31 


N    -.^ 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

iVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/atlucifersportalOObachrich 


At  LUCIFER'S  Portals 
AND  Other  Verses 


At  LUCIFER'S  Portals 

AND 

Other  Verses 


BY 


PAUL  B.   BACHTELL 


Baumtzardt  Publishing  Company 

Los   Angeles 

1917 


Copyriaht,  1917 

By 

PAUL  B.  BACHTELL 


,,-<<*■ 


•1  ■  .-   '  '    s 


■Wty:\-ii,A>- ■ 


A  Personal  Word 

Reader! 

This  is  a  book  of  verses,  and,  as  such,  it  may  bear 
already  the  antithesis  of  your  blessing;  but  if  your  preju- 
dices against  composition  in  meter  and  rhyme  are  not 
unconquerable,  and  you  will  spare  sufficient  time  from 
your  business  cares  and  your  sweetheart's,  husband's  (  ?), 
or  wife's  (?)  last  billet-doux  to  thumb  these  pages,  you 
may  discover  in  the  contents  some  real  excuse  for  the 
existence  of  this  little  volume  and  incidentally  enjoy  a 
laugh  or  two,  a  sigh,  perhaps  even  a  thrill. 

What  is  published  is  published ;  and  I  have  no  excuses 
to  offer. 

However,  dear  reader — "dear"  if  you  have  followed  me 
thus  far— I  have  several  assurances  to  give : — 

First,  this  book  is  not  a  rhapsody  of  love. 

Second,  it  does  not  eulogize  any  adorable  creature's 
eyebrow  (with  all  due  respect  to  Petrarch  be  this  said), 
nor  does  it  depict  the  skeleton  closet  of  a  broken  heart. 

Third,  it  does  not  moralize  at  length;  for,  than  this, 
nothing  would  damn  it  more  effectively. 

Fourth,  if  this  book,  by  chance,  is  illumined  by  a  spark 
of  real  inspiration,  the  same  may  be  traced  to  the  mid- 
night oil  rather  than  to  divine  fires  from  on  high. 

In  offering  this  little  volume  I  am  well  aware  that 
prejudices  against  poetry  are  as  common  as  uncomely 
faces ;  but,  nevertheless,  being  full  of  folly,  possibly ;  and 

7 

3G6246 


ambition,  most  assuredly ;  and  adventurous  courage,  with- 
out a  doubt ;  I  submit  the  fruits  of  well  intended  labors, 
for  better  or  for  worse,  hoping  above  all  else  that  the 
most  heart-rending  of  all  fates  is  not  in  store  for  me — 
that  of  being  persistently  ignored. 

Prejudices  against  poetry!  What  a  task  to  combat 
them!  Prejudices  begotten  in  youth  in  the  drudgery  of 
scanning  iambics  and  trochees,  anapests,  dactyls,  and 
Heaven  knows  what  not,  under  the  befuddling  gaze  of  a 
stern  schoolmaster,  and  fostered  in  the  agony  of  diving 
hopelessly  after  the  meaning  concealed  in  unfathomable 
classics ;  prejudices  nourished  by  the  scads  of  insufferable 
verses  that  miraculously  find  their  way  into  print ;  preju- 
dices stimulated  by  newspaper  jokes  and  gibes,  and  im- 
measurably strengthened  by  one's  wholesome  horror  of 
the  proverbial,  dreamy-eyed,  crescent-shaped,  long-haired 
unfortunate  who  writes  odes  to  tree-tops  and  doggerel 
ditties  to  angels'  faces  which  he  sees  in  the  moon ;  preju- 
dices that  are  given  the  finishing  touches  by  the  appre- 
hension felt  for  the  esteemed  dear  friend  who  shows 
symptoms  of  running  poetically  amuck. 

Where  is  there  the  village  that  does  not  boast  of  at 
least  one  budding  poetical  genius?  Where  the  town  in 
which  poets  are  not  as  numerous  as  obesity  cures  ?  Where 
the  city  in  which  they  do  not  flock  in  appalling  hundreds  ? 

Unfortunate  poet! 

Doubly  unfortunate  poet's  friend,  who  finds  it  incum- 
bent upon  him,  as  a  sacred  duty  of  friendship,  to  finance 
the  poet's  indigent  stomach  that  the  star  rover  may  in- 
dulge in  rhapsodies  on  foolscap! 

The  tragedy  of  being  a  poet! — especially  an  every-day 
lofty-browed  poet,  who  will  not  sing  of  anything  more 


commonplace  than  mythological  goddesses  and  the  astral 
chimes. 

Dear  reader,  I  have  not  sung  of  mythological  goddesses 
— some  of  our  modern  "Eves"  have  all  the  goddesses  of 
antiquity  backed  off  the  boards,  anyway — and  the  astral 
chimes  have  tinkled  at  the  invocation  of  my  muse,  times 
few,  and  but  softly  at  that. 


I  have  spoken  of  prejudices  against  poetry,  and  of  the 
hand-to-mouth  contingent  of  rippling  rhymsters  who  fail 
to  take  the  public  by  storm  by  juggling  such  words  as 
"love"  and  "dove,"  and  "broke"  and  "no  joke."  I  have 
not  spoken  of  the  Shelleys  and  Hugos,  of  the  Poes  and 
Longfellows,  nor  is  it  my  purpose  to  do  so.  "Genius  sits 
alone  in  cold  sublimity  above  the  common  herd,"  as  some- 
one has  said,  and  a  plea  in  its  behalf  would  be  as  "sound- 
ing brass  and  tinkling-cymbals." 

You  who  have  followed  me  thus  far  possibly  will 
thumb,  at  least,  the  pages  that  follow;  so,  craving  your 
indulgence  for  not  writing  so  well  as  "The  Immortals,"  I 
consign  this  little  book  to  whatever  fate  your  critical 
judgment  may  hold  in  store. 

— The  Author. 


Contents 


Come,  Friend,  Let's  Don  the  Cap  and  Bells 15 

At  Lucifer's  Portals 17 

Greetings  27 

Southern  California 28 

Here's  to  the  Prince  of  Good  Fellows 30 

Why  Trembles  the  Earth  Under  Martial  Tread 31 

The  Millionaire's  Last  Search  for  Gold 32 

Wages  of  Sin 35 

Like  Unto  the  Vampire  37 

The  Pedigreed  Lady 38 

The  Star-Adorned  Ensign,  Old  Glory 39 

Time 40 

The  Dog  and  The  God 41 

Eternal  Punishment 42 

Dogmas  and  Creeds    , 43 

Fight  On!  44 

What  Good  the  Music  of  the  Spheres 45 

From  Fish  to  Man,  From  Clod  to  God 46 

My  Wonderful  Self  I  AM  Proud  to  Be 47 

Who  Is  Who : 49 

In  the  Years  After  We  Have  Parted 50 

As  Golden  Years  Go  By 51 

Lines  to  U 52 

11 


Sonnets  to  B 53 

Lines  to  Madam  Griselda 55 

SENTIMENT,  HUMOR,  TRUTH 
AND  NONSENSE 

The  Lament  of  a  Benedict 61 

Watertank  Station  62 

Don't  Heed  the  Lure  of  Little  Things 63 

If  You're  Fighting  Like  a  Trojan 64 

Toasts  of  a  Cynic 65 

In  Quest  of  a  Wife 66 

The  Desert  Rat 69 

Speak  the  Truth,  Shame  the  Devil 70 

To  My  Old  Girl 71 

It  Pays  to  Know 72 

The  Falling  Out 73 

Lovely  Belle  of  Society 74 

Though  the  Rich  Man  May  Not  Enter  Heaven 75 

It  Matters  Not  76 

Do  It  Again  77 

Dutchy's  Newspaper  Venture  und  Luf  Affair 78 

POEMS  OF  YOUTH 

Lines  to  Shelley 85 

June 86 

The  Lily 87 

The  Dead  Rose  Bush 88 

The  Robin's  Courtship  89 

12 


3npj5  Itttk  book,  (3f  hebtcate 

STo  ^ou  tifat  liliB  mg  Verses, — 

|Itk^  tJ[|cm,  gsa,  tifiiuglj  crtttre,  ^tcat, 
P^atofo  on  mt  tilth  axtsitsi^ 


COME,  FRIEND,  LET'S  DON  THE  CAP 
AND  BELLS 

Come,  friend,  let's  don  the  cap  and  bells 

And  have  our  little  jest, 
While,  'mid  life's  bursting  battle-shells, 

We  grope  our  way  to — rest. 

Oh,  verily,  'twixt  womb  and  tomb 

We  have  not  long  to  tarry; 
The  morn  may  bring  the  cannon's  boom; — 

So  while  there's  time  be  merry! 

Yea,  we  have  loved  and  fought  and  wept; 

We've  banqueted  and  fasted; 
Our  hopes,  to  starry  heights,  have  leapt, 

And  fallen,  seared  and  blasted. 

Despite  all,  we've  survived  the  worst 

That  darkened  life's  closed  pages, 
And  into  laughter  still  can  burst 

Though  warfare  'round  us  rages. 

Strange,  is  it  not?    But  so  man's  made; — 

A  child  of  tears  and  laughter. 
Destined  for  the  digger's  spade 

So  soon  his  good  laughs  after. 

So  let  us  don  the  cap  and  bells 

And  have  our  little  jest. 
While,  'mid  life's  bursting  battle-shells, 

We  grope  our  way  to-^rest. 


15 


AT  LUCIFER'S  PORTALS 


Through  Stygian  waves,  at  dusk,  a  spectral  boat, 
Mysteriously  propelled  toward  shore,  remote. 
Sped  swiftly  on,  with  Charon  at  the  helm, — 
It  was  en  route  to  Satan's  populous  realm. 

An  aged  monk;  a  sullen,  vicious  stoker; 
A  daring  gambler ;  and  a  handsome  broker ; 
Two  soulmates,  who,  ere  death,  were  lunatics, 
Were  being  piloted  across  the  Styx. 

The  ghostly  band  was  under  Heaven's  curse. 
And  doubtless  none  were  dying  to  converse; 
The  stoker,  though,  athirst  for  information. 
Made  bold  to  speak,  and  seeming  trepidation 
Shook  his  sepulchral  voice:    "Old  timer,  ho! 
You've  crossed  this  Devil's  creek  a  time  or  so; — 
Yon  hell-ward  sky  glares  ominously  red ; 
How  is  the  climate — tropical,  ahead?" 

"Aye,  aye,  sir!"    quoth  the  pilot.      "What,    you    quake? 
Your  voice  did  tremble,  and  I  believe  you  shake." 
"B-r-r-r,  I  am  cold,  make  haste,"  the  stoker  spake. 

"Already  'tis  too  warm,"  the  gambler  grumbled; 
Then,  to  himself,  contemptuously  mumbled: 
"He  scarce  would  tremble  so  if  packed  in  ice: 
He  lied;  it  is  not  cold,  but  cowardice." 

"Oh,  may  the  devil  roast  you!"  said  another, 
"The  rest  are  in  no  hurry,  bloodless  brother." 

17 


AT  LUCIFER'S  PORTALS 

"Bah,  sir!"  the  stoker  sneered.    "I  have  endured 

Roastings  before:    I  am,  to  heat,  inured; — 

And,  therein,  am  more  fortunate  than  you, 

Or  any  other  member  of  this  crew. 

B-r-r-r,  I  am  cold,"  he  said,  with  chattering  teeth, 

"A  while  ago  my  body  froze  to  death 

In  icy  sea,  where  ship  was  wrecked  in  storm; 

And  though  in  Hades  I  am  not  yet  warm." 

Then  chuckled,  loud  and  long,  the  pilot,  old; 
The  rest  were  silent,  and  no  soul  made  bold 
To  find  out  whether  he  was  really  cold. 

Dusk  upon  the  Stygian  river! 
Through  the  glowing  waves,  a-quiver. 
The  boat  sped  on,  with  Charon  at  the  helm; 
It  was  en  route  to  Satan's  populous  realm. 

Next  spake  the  gambler :    "I  am  burning,  sir," — 

He  paused  in  speech ; — the  soulmates,  startled,  were. 

And,  wondering  if  he  had  become  ignited, 

Stared  at  him  apparently  affrighted, — 

"With  curiosity  am  burning,  sir. 

To  know  just  what  is  going  to  occur ; 

And  in  particular  I  am  concerned 

To  know  if  we  poor  devils  shall  be  burned? 

Whereas  my  corse  by  worms  will  be  consumed. 

Is  this  still  living  part  of  me  now  doomed 

To  undergo  cremation 

In  the  region  of  damnation?" 

"Be  patient,"  said  the  spirit  at  the  stern, 
"Enough  to  know  that  none  of  you  shall  burn." 

Ah,  there  were  exclamations  of  surprise; 
And   heavenward   ascended   joyous   sighs. 
And  Charon  reassured  them  'twas  the  truth ; 
Said  they  were  incombustible,  in  sooth. 

18 


AT  LUCIFER'S  PORTALS 


"Oh,  Lord!"  exclaimed  a  spirit,  lank  and  tall; 
"Oh,  glory  hallelujah! 
Hear  me,  husband, — do  you? — 
We  shall  not  burn  at  all!" 
And  to  his  breast,  the  former  half-wit  drew 
His  better  half,  and  answered,  "Yes,  do  you?" 

Some  snickered  at  the  pair;  the  gambler  burst 
Into  loud  laughter,  though  he  was  accurst. 
And,  soon,  the  husband,  waxing  affable. 
Ventured  a  jest,  which  was  not  laughable. 

Old  Charon  hummed  a  lively  ragtime  waltz. 
And  creditably,  though  many  notes  were  false. 

"Sweet  music!"  chirped  the  spouse.   "Oh,  darling  mate! 
We'll  not  be  burned;  come,  let  us  celebrate!" 
The  soulmates,  who,  ere  death,  were  lunatics, 
Though  they  were  on  the  infernal  River  Styx, 
Embraced,  began  to  "rag,"  and  wildly  laughed; 
And  dangerously  rocked  the  infernal  craft; 
And  Charon  shook  his  fist  and  loud  did  storm: 
"Avast!     In  Hades  'ragging'  is  bad  form!" 

The  erring  souls  avasted,  much  chagrined ; 

And,  in  confusion,  murmured:    "Have  we  sinned?" 

And  Charon  said,  with  magisterial  air, 
While  others  laughed  and  snickered  at  the  pair: 
"Alas,  poor  things!    you  did  embrace  too  tightly; 
And,  when  you  wiggle,  wiggle  very  slightly: 
Such  dancing  is,  to  say  the  least,  unsightly." 

The  soulmates  hung  their  heads;  the  stoker  scowled. 

"A  dangerous  couple,  that!"  he  loudly  growled; 

"They  must  be  watched:   the  great  half-wits  might  play 

Leapfrog,  or  suddenly  give  way 

To  some  new  mania,  and  upset  the  boat ; 

And  I  am  cold,  and  hell  is  still  remote." 

19 


AT  LUCIFER'S  PORTALS 

The  sinister  craft,  through  the  waters,  sped 

Toward  the  shore  of  the  damned  with  the  souls  of  the  dead. 

The  genial  old  pilot,  who  relished  a  joke. 
Winked  at  the  soul  of  the  gambler,  and  spoke: 

"Pray  tell  me,  which  luckless  member 

Of  this  ill-fated  crew 
Has  been  the  rashest  gambler, 

And  least  successful,  too." 

The  gambler  could  think,  though  his  brains  were  dead; 

He  inspected  each  member,  reflected,  and  said: 

**By  the  pitchfork  of  Satan!     I  believe  that  I  can, 

On  first  venture,  point  to  the  guilty  man. 

Let  us  bet  on  the  question,  my  genial  old  shade. 

If  nothing  is  risked,  why,  naught  will  be  made. 

Diversion  we'll  have,  lest  we  think  too  intent. 

On  our  rather  precarious  predicament. 

And  our  dear  earthly  lives,  which,  it  seems,  were  ill-spent." 

"But,  you  sporty  old  stager. 
You've  nothing  to  wager; 
Not  even  a  soul,  as  the  devil  owns  that." 
And  into  the  river  the  pilot  spat. 

"In  truth,"  mourned  the  gambler,  "I  had  forgot 
That  Death  has  made  mine  the  pauper's  loathed  lot." 
The  master  of  cardcraft  was  wrathful,  indeed. 
That  so  very  embarrassing  was  his  need; 
He  lacked  even  credit; — 'twas  truly  "to  grieve"! 
Old  Death  had  not  left  him  "one  card  up  a  sleeve" 
Wherewith,  in  this  matter,  to  venture  a  lead. 

20 


AT  LUCIFER'S  PORTALS 


Again  spake  the  rogue,  who,  on  earth,  had  thrown  dice, 

But  who,  now,  was  unable  to  gratify  vice : 

"A  very  good  loser  I  always  have  been ; 

My  soul  I  have  lost,  but  still  I  can  grin." 

And  the  gambler  grinned  broadly,  though  sullen  his  mood : 

Then  queried :  "In  Hades,  is  gambling  tabooed?" 

The  ancient  shade,  who  was  a  heartless  joker, 
Cried  lustily,  "The  devil's  imps  play  poker; 
Throw  missionaries  in  their  huge  jack-pot, 
And  those  poor  rebels  usually  get  hot." 

The  worthy  monk  twice  crossed  himself  in  haste; 

The  broker  told  the  stoker  that  the  puns  were  in  bad  taste. 

And  the  pilot,  old  and  hoar. 

Chuckled  long,  then  spoke  once  more 

To  the  soul  that  looked  so  pensive, 

To  the  soul  so  apprehensive. 

Who  did  silently  deplore 

He  might  shuffle  cards  no  more, 

But  might  do  the  double  shuffle  on  a  hot,  infernal  shore ; — 

Or,  perchance,  a  later  dance 

If  the  shore  were  incandescent; — 

Tortured  by  the  heat,  incessant. 

Do  some  modern  trot  or  prance. 

The  pilot,  old  and  hoar. 
Chuckled  long,  then  spoke  once  more: 
"Ye  scoundrels  will  have  need  of  recreation 
In  that  sulphuric  realm  of  dire  damnation; 
And  ye  may  sport  a  little  on  the  side, — 
That  is,  when  you're  not  being  purified." 

The  soulmates,  much  relieved,  in  concord  sighed; 

The  ex-coal  heaver  smote  his  breast  and  cried: 

"Land  lubbers  in  this  ancient  tub! 

Hurrah  for  old  Beelzebub! 

I  thought  that  I  would  have  to  stoke, 

Without  a  rest  in  fumes  and  smoke, 

As  long  as  there  is  coal  or  coke." 

21 


AT  LUCIFER'S  PORTALS 

The  gambler  rejoiced, 

Though  his  joy  was  not  voiced, 

That  he  might  be  privileged  to  revel  and  game; 

But  the  sorrowful  contemplation  soon  came: 

''You  sporty  old  stager^ 
You've  nothing  to  wager. 
Not  even  a  soul,  as  the  devil  owns  that!" 
And  into  the  river  of  hell  he  spat. 

The  gambler  was  wishing  that  he  were  extinct 
When  the  pilot  looked  at  him  shrewdly  and  winked : — 

"You  have  not  told  me  who. 
In  this  unearthly  crew. 

Has  been  the  rashest  gambler  and  least  success- 
ful, too." 

The  gambler  inspected  the  sullen  stoker, 

The  soulmates,  the  monk,  and  then  the  broker. 

The  gambler  could  think,  though  his  brains  had  died, 

So  after  reflecting  awhile  he  replied : 

"The  luckless  monk,  before  his  bones  were  laid 
To  welcome  rest,  the  rashest  venture  made : 
It  dearly  cost  him  love  and  worldly  pleasures 
To  play  his  game  for  doubtful  heavenly  treasures ; 
He  played  to  win  a  big  celestial  stake. 
What  more  uncertain  venture  could  man  make? 
And  had  he  been  successful, — well. 
He  would  not  be  en  route  to  hell." 

Old  Charon  chuckled  long,  then  scratched  his  head. 
And  to  the  cocksure,  brazen  gambler  said : 
"Our  holy  brother,  sir,  from  grace  ne'er  fell ; 
He  goes  on  missionary  work  to  hell." 

"What— what  is  that?"  the  gambler  gasped,  "Is't  so? 
And  has  he  treasures  in  heaven,  do  you  know?" 

22 


AT  LUCIFER'S  PORTALS 

"Indeed  he  has,"  the  ancient  shade  averred, 
"And  treasures  with  him,  too,  upon  my  word/' 

The  curious  gambler,  at  the  monk,  did  stare ; 
That  worthy  spirit  was  absorbed  in  prayer. 
"So  he  has  really  been  in  paradise! 
And  is  he,  then,  an  angel  in  disguise?" 

"Hist!  more  of  that  anon.    Now  cock  your  ear, 
And  gaze  upon  this  woeful  broker,  here. 

"He  is  the  luckless  member 

Of  this  unearthly  crew, 
Who  was  the  rashest  gambler, 

And  the  least  successful,  too. 

"Time  was  when  the  rogue  had  wealth  and  brains; 
(Aye,  valueless,  now,  are  the  paltry  remains) 

Dear  to  him,  then,  was  his  life : 
The  rogue  recklessly  jeopardized  his  name; 
Staked  honor  and  life,  and  played  his  game ; — 

And  the  prize  was  his  neighbor's  wife. 

He  staked  his  salvation,  so  many  did  claim ; 
He  squandered  his  coin  on  the  giddy  dame. 

And,  oh,  how  the  cold  cash  went! — 
(To  stir  up  a  hornets'  nest  of  woes) 
He  stole  her  from  under  her  husband's  nose, — 

An  every-day  event! 

Now,  dutiful  Satan,  in  this  game  of  sin 
Held  a  promising  hand,  and  played  to  win 

Three  souls,  without  delay: 
And  the  Conqueror  Worm,  in  the  background  lurked ; 
While  the  venom  of  Eden's  old  Serpent  worked ; — 

The  husband  made  a  play. 

23 


AT  LUCIFER'S  PORTALS 

"The  blood  of  the  husband,  the  blood  of  the  fool, 
Did  mix  on  the  floor  in  a  crimson  pool ; 

And  a  widow  stared,  wild-eyed; 
And  the  lover  bewailed,  as  he  gave  up  the  ghost : 
^Oh,  I  was  a  fool !    All,  all  is  lost ! ' 

The  woman  wailed  o'er  each  homicide. 

"The  rogue  had  to  leave  all  his  credit  and  cash ; 
He  won  nothing,  lost  all,  in  his  venture,  rash, 

To  win  but  a  paltry  thing. 
And  the  rogue,  in  the  region,  infernal,  I  say, 
Will  repent  of  his  folly,  while  his  clay 

On  earth  lies  mouldering." 

The  gambler  could  think,  though  his  brains  were  dead, 

And,  thoughtfully,  to  the  pilot,  he  said: 

"  'Twas  folly,  indeed,  to  stake  honor  and  life 

In  an  effort  to  win  another  man's  wife ; 

And  as  he  is  now  in  the  realm  of  damnation, 

I  judge  that  he  lost  his  chance  of  salvation. 

And,  as  in  my  case,  so  he  will  lament 

That  he  lost  his  dear  flesh,  ere  his  riches  were  spent. 

His  leaving  the  dame  was  a  trivial  event.'' 

The  gambler  ceased  speaking.    Charon  addressed 
The  broker,  whose  spirits  were  plainly  depressed : 
"To  risk  one's  life,  rashly,  for  woman's  sweet  sake, 
Is  a  terrible  blunder, — too  much  is  at  stake ; 
If  he  loses  his  life,  he  also  doth  lose  her ; 
Another  will  probably  win  and  abuse  her; 
The  lady  won't  follow  her  hero,  alack! 
And  the  poor,  foolish  fellow  can  not  go  back." 

Then  muttered  the  miserable  homicide: 
"So  I  have  concluded  since  I  died." 

24 


AT  LUCIFER'S  PORTALS 

"Cheer  up!"  cried  the  pilot.   "Ere  long  you  will  find 
A  lovelier  dame  than  the  one  left  behind. 
There  are  not  such  beauties  on  earth  as  in  Hades ; 
Ah,  there  you  will  find  some  superb  spirit  ladies!" 

The  once  gallant  broker,  who  passively  stared 
At  a  glare  in  the  distance,  sharply  declared: 
"Not  a  fig-leaf  do  I  care 

About  the  spirit  ladies  there. 

Or  in  creation  anywhere." 

"What,  ho!    already  a  woman  hater 

Because  of  your  curse? — She'll  join  you  later." 

"I  hope  not,  old  pilot;  I  hope  she'll  be  saved. 
'Twas  largely  my  fault  that  we  misbehaved. 
I  hate  not  the  dangerous  sex,  entire; 
But  I  care  not  to  play,  hereafter,  with  fire. 
But  say, — must  we  sinners  eternally  stay 
In  the  region,  infernal?    Tell  me,  pray, 
Or  will  we  grow  pinions,  and  fly  away?" 


"A  spirit,  when  purified,  need  not  remain 

In  Satan's  well  governed  and  marv'lous  domain: 

But  it  largely  depends  on  the  spirit  ladies. 

How  long  the  male  spirits  remain  in  Hades ; 

You  may  find  it  hard  to  behave  as  you  should. 

And  you  can  not  depart  until  you  are  good ; 

And  some  are  so  charming  you'll  not  care  to  leave  'em. 

Especially  if  your  departing  would  grieve  'em." 

"My  amorous  old  pilot!    cease  to  harp 
On  the  dear  spirit  ladies,"  came  the  sharp 
Retort  of  the  broker. 

Charon  swore. 
And  declared  he'd  enlighten  an  ingrate  no  more. 

25 


AT  LUCIFER'S  PORTALS 

The  gambler,  alas !  was  deploring  again ; 
And  he  mournfully  muttered  his  sad  refrain, 
"A  sporty  old  stager, 
With  nothing  to  wager, 
Not  even  a  soul,  as  the  devil  owns  that!" 
And  into  the  river  of  hell  he  spat. 

Silence  awhile, — then  disconsolately: 
*'The  Devil  and  Death  have  pauperized  me; 
But  heavenly  treasures  the  monk  doth  possess; 
So,  it  seems,  he  played  shrewdly  and  scored  success/ 

He  glanced  at  the  monk,  and,  amazed,  he  saw 

Great  glory,  revealed;  and  he  shuddered  with  awe; 

He  stared  at  the  saintly  visage,  upturned ; 

Saw  the  light  of  the  holy  zeal  that  burned 

In  the  eyes  of  the  monk, — in  prayer,  upraised. 

And  the  gambler  muttered,  as  still  he  gazed: 

"If  the  opportunity,  glorious,  be  given 

In  Hades,  to  win  precious  treasures  in  heaven, 

Methinks  'twill  be  better  to  start  afresh. 

And  play  a  new  game  I  ne'er  played  in  the  flesh." 


The  sinister  craft,  through  the  waters,  sped 
Toward  the  ominous  glare,  toward  the  region  of  dread, 
And,  silent  the  woebegone  souls  of  the  dead. 


The  indistinct  craft,  when  last  it  was  seen, 
Was  near  the  dread  shore,  and  the  monk,  serene, 
Was  holding  a  luminous  crucifix, 
Which  blazed  in  the  mist  on  the  River  Styx ; 
And  lo!    'round  his  head  was  a  halo  of  glory. 
As  he  prayed  for  the  wretches  in  purgatory. 


26 


GREETINGS 

Oh,  believe  me,  this  wish  is  a  wish  sincere : 
That  during  the  year 

Pleasure,  success  and  prosperity, 

Be  apportioned  thee 
In  such  a  measure  that  thou  wilt  climb 

Most  rapidly 
To  the  heights,  sublime. 
Oh,  may  you  ever  improve  with  time! 


27 


SOUTHERN   CALIFORNIA 


There  is  a  land  where  bird  spreads  pinion 

O'er  an  ever  green  dominion ; 
Where  the  tuneful  tongue  of  bird  is  never  mute. 

Oh,  it  is  an  El  Dorado, 

Free  from  blizzard  and  tornado, 
Land  of  mineral  and  fruit! 

'Tis  beside  the  old  Pacific, 

Where  bloom  orange  groves  prolific; 
'Tis  the  Southland,  by  the  sunset  sea  carest, — 
The  fruitful  Eden  of  the  Golden  West. 

Empire  by  the  Western  waters, 

Dear  to  all  her  sons  and  daughters, 
Is  a  land  where  it  is  always  blossom  time; 

Everlasting  Summer  smiles 

On  the  land  and  sea  and  isles; 
'Tis  a  celebrated  clime. 

Where  loom  azure   peaks,   snow-crested; — 

Land  with  untold  grandeur  vested. 
Where  the  verdant  earth  and  sea  and  sky  combine 
To  make  the  homeland  very  near  divine. 

'Tis  a  land  of  grain  and  clover; 

'Tis  a  cotton  land,  moreover; 
'Tis  sheltered  by  its  mountains,  robed  in  pines; — 

Famous  for  its  clime,  propitious; 

Pears  and  citrus  fruits,  delicious; 
Figs  and  olives,  nuts  and  wines. 

There  are  yet  untilled,  rich  regions 

Where  Dame  Fortune  becks  to  legions: — 
Greater   wealth,   by    far,   the    Golden   West   can   yield; 
Enriched  will  be  new  hosts  that  take  the  field. 

28 


SOUTHERN  CALIFORNIA 


Our  progressive  population, 
Helping  to  enrich  the  nation, 

Will,  more  celebrated,  make  the  peerless  land. 
All  our  splendid  cities  flourish. 
And  the  world  we  help  to  nourish, — 

Rich  resources  at  command. 

Wealth  beladen  ships  are  steaming 
From  our  harbors,  calm  and  gleaming; 

And  our  land  shall  prosper  now  as  ne'er  before, 

With  Panama's  new  gateway  at  our  door. 


HERE'S  TO  THE  PRINCE  OF  GOOD 
FELLOWS 


Here's  to  the  Prince  of  Good  Fellows, 
The  God  of  a  myriad  of  hearts; 

Bestower  of  countless  blessings, 
Yet  master  of  all  black  arts. 

Best  friend  to  the  king  of  finance. 

Or  battered  knight  of  ''shank's  mare"; 
To  the  married  man  or  the  lover, — 

Benefactor  beyond  compare! 

Oh,  here's  to  the  Prince  of  Good  Fellows, 

Prince  of  the  lustrous  wings; 
Loved  and  extolled  by  all  classes; — 

Shown  deference  by  Earth's  kings! 

Here's  to  the  Prince  of  Good  Fellows, 

Under  whose  wings,  outspread. 
Earth's  mightiest  nations  seek  refuge, 

While  war  piles  to  heaven  the  dead! 

Here's  to  the  Savior  of  Millions, 

To  whom  starving  multitudes  flee; 

While   the   drunk   beggar,    Mars,    whose   deeds 
smell  to  the  stars. 
Bends  his  supplicating  knee! 

Here's  a  toast  to  that  Prince  of  Good  Fellows, 
Hailed  by  the  world  as  supreme — 

The  Almighty  American  Dollar, 

With  the  Wings  and  the  Eagle's  Scream! 


30 


WHY  TREMBLES  THE  EARTH  UNDER  MARTIAL 

TREAD? 

Why  trembles  the  earth  under  martial  tread, 

And  why  are  the  marts  of  the  world  dyed  red, 

And  the  weird  nights  illumined  with  bonfires  of  dead? 

The  mailed  fist  descending — the  fist  world-old; 

The  multitudes  writhing  in  anguish,  untold; 

The  munition-kings  reaping  their  harvest  of  gold! 

Industry's  wheels  grinding  night  and  day 

To  keep  ever  the  Dogs  of  War  in  the  fray. 

And  the  Wolf  from  the  Nation's  hearth-stone,  away! 

The  warrior's  strong  arm  and  the  scientist's  brain 

In  unison  working  with  might  and  main 

To  swell  the  vast  ranks  of  the  crippled  and  slain! 

The  best  manhood  of  nations,  fast  or  slow. 
Sinking  from  sight  in  the  crimson  tide's  flow; 
Chivalry's  bones  to  be  picked  by  the  crow! 

Multitudinous  death  bursting  everywhere, — 
From  under  the  waves,  on  earth,  in  air, 
Till  the  vitals  of  nations  are  laid  bare! 

Proud  Civilization's  masque  torn  amain, 
The  tusks  of  the  tiger  showing  plain, 
And  still  on  the  brow  the  Brand  of  Cain! 

Why  trembles  the  earth  under  martial  tread. 

And  why  are  the  marts  of  the  world  dyed  red, 

And  the  weird  nights  illumined  with  bonfires  of  dead? 

To  the  hell  of  the  earth-world,  littered  with  slain. 
There  comes  from  the  Fiend's  pleasant  hell,  the  refrain: 
'"Tis  the  curse  of  the  world-old  passion  for  gain, 
The  magic,  the  tragic  passion  for  gain!" 


31 


THE   MILLIONAIRESS    LAST   SEARCH 
FOR  GOLD 

On  the  desert,  dark  and  dismal 
As  are  Stygian  depths,  abysmal, 

One  who  had  toss'd 
Gold  right  and  left,  sported  and  swaggered, 
Mad  with  thirst,  in  darkness  staggered. 

All  hope  was  lost! 

Creed  had  caused  him  to  brave  peril ; 
Knter  carcass-strewn,  hot,  sterile 

Death  Valley,  dread: 
With  guide  and  beasts  he  had  come  hither; 
Thirst  had  caused  their  veins  to  wither; 

They  now  were  dead. 

Sleep  overcame  him.     Parched,  delirious, 
Lay  the  money-king,  imperious; — 

Drank  hogsheads  dry; 
Dreamed  of  brooklets,  drank  insanely, — 
With  unslackened  thirst  drank  vainly 

And  marveled  why! 

Nearly  naked,  parched,  delirious, 
Lay  the  money-king,  imperious, 

'Neath  desert  sky; 
Dark  the  night,  the  sands  were  flying; 
And  the  millionaire  was  dying. 

And  none  stood  by. 

When  he,  in  luxury,  was  sporting. 
And  with  princely  ones  consorting, 

'Twas  his  intent. 
That  when  he  died,  no  burial,  lowly. 
But  great  pomp  and  service,  holy. 

Should  grace  the  last  event. 

32 


THE  MILLIONAIRE'S  LAST  SEARCH  FOR  GOLD 


To  be  embalmed,  he  had  desired; 
Ah,  most  handsomely  attired. 

His  precious  clay 
In  costly  casket  should  be  cased. 
And  in  sarcophagus,  then  placed. 

Would  mock  Decay. 

Night  and  desert;  heaven  covered 
With  a  shroud  wherein  Storm  hovered! 

The  Croesus,  great, 
Strove  hard  to  'rise, —  Wind  shrieked  derision; 
Stinging  sands  impaired  his  vision; 

He  lay  prostrate. 

Storm  now  is  rampant;  crashing  thunder, 
It  seems  will  split  the  earth  asunder; 

Each  vivid  flare 
Above  that  Hades,  stretching  vastly, 
Lights  an  object,  grim  and  ghastly. 

With  vacant  stare. 

In  the  night — the  panther  crying — 
On  the  desert  he  was  lying, 

How  peaceful  there! 
Wine  and  Revelry  had  cloyed  him, — 
Thirst  and  Desert, — they  destroyed  him, 

The  millionaire. 

No  sarcophagus  protected; 
And  rapacious  birds  respected 

Not  his  rank; 
Nor  did  the  beast  that,  expeditely. 
Made  those  poor  remains  less  sightly, — 

A  panther,  lank. 

Snarling  things  with  empty  paunches. 
Sit,  tonight,  on  their  lean  haunches. 

Among  his  bones; 
Yelp  and  howl,  as  though  lamenting 

33 


THE  MILLIONAIRE'S  LAST  SEARCH  FOR  GOLD 


That  the  remnants  they  are  scenting 
Are  bare  as  stones. 

That  once  proud  head  lies  weather-beaten ; 
Bone  alone  has  not  been  eaten; 

Teeth  shine  dull: 
Jealous  night  wind  moans  and  hisses, 
As  the  sickly  moonlight  kisses 

That  grinning  skull. 


34 


WAGES  OF  SIN 

She's  very  drunk — Madam  Sinclaire, 
So  richly  gowned,  and  oh,  so  fair, — 
Drunk  in  the  cafe's  din  and  glare. 

She  fixes  a  pathetic  stare 

On  one  with  slightly  ruffled  hair, — 

Her  escort,  well-groomed,  debonaire. 

He  sees  that  angel  face  aflush 

With  paint  from  Demon  Highball's  brush. 

No  more  her  eyes  hold  mystic  spell — 

Twin  oysters  would  look  just  as  well. 

She's  very  drunk — the  blurred  lights  swim; 

He  sees  the  truth — it  sobers  him. 

To  lose  her  head — a  stupid  thing! 

She  might  become  embarrassing. 

Not  yet  a  hardened  devotee 

Of  Bacchanalian  Life  is  she. 

But  just  a  woman  who  may  be; — 

A  widow  with  men  at  her  heels, 

But  still  a  woman  with  ideals; 

One  who  has  many  trials  withstood, 

Has  great  capacity  for  good, 

And  knows  the  cares  of  motherhood. 

She  fights  to  seem  half  sober,  still; 
The  highballs  struggle  with  her  will. 
Her  escort  over  stein  and  foam 
Suggests  a  "taxicab"  and  "home." 

They  rise  to  leave  the  paradise 
Of  revelry  and  tinseled  vice. 

Oh,  oft  man  clutches — just  too  late! 
She  staggers  and  collides  with — Fate: 
Reels  'gainst  a  couple  on  their  way 
To  chairs  in  Highlife's  thronged  cafe, — 
A  pretty  girl  with  painted  cheeks 


35 


WAGES  OF  SIN 

And  breath  that,  with  wine's  odor,  reeks ; 
A  young  man  yet  unweaned  from  school. 
Not  bad,  but  sometimes — just  a  fool. 

The  wretched  woman  stumbles,  slips — 
Filled  glasses  pause  midway  to  lips — 

Some  thought  she'd  fainted — just  a  few; 
The  woman's  wretched  escort  knew! 
Men  strained  their  necks,  and  women,  too. 
A  myriad  eyes  were  turned  that  way 
To  gaze  at  Folly's  prostrate  prey. 
A  grandoise  dame,  with  lips,  gin-wet, 
Stared  icily  through  her  lorgnette; 
Her  spouse,  half  man,  half  ''missing  link," 
Grinned  foolishly  and  took  a  drink. 

For  moments,  few  —  which  teemed  with  hell, 

Shamed  womanhood  lay  where  she  fell; 

Then,  rescued  by  the  hands  of  men, 

The  fallen  idol  stood,  again; 

But  oh,  so  altered  in  the  eyes 

Of  those  who'd  helped  her  to  arise, — 

An  escort  who  urged  quick  escape, 

A  young  man  friendly  with  the  Grape! 

Some  wondered  why,  amazed,  she  stared 
(A  voice,  the  while,  in  ragtime  blared) 
Stared  into  eyes  with  wine,  aflame; 
Stared  at  a  face  which  burned  with  shame! 
Inaudibly,  she  gasped  a  name; 
Then  softly  moaned  to  one  held  dear: 
"You — and  that — painted — girl — in  here!" 

On,  with  the  care-free  midnight  revel, — 
Who  cares  or  thinks  about  the  devil! 
On,  with  the  music,  mirth  and  laughter, — 
Who  cares  about  the  morning  after! 
On  with  the  Bacchanalian  fun. 
Mute,  horrified,  stand — Mother,  Son! 


LIKE  UNTO  THE  VAMPIRE 

I  saw  a  woman  of  spotless  name 

Bedecked  in  gaudy  attire; 
And  heard  her  vow  she  would  play  the  game 

As  plays  the  artful  vampire. 

Oh,  much  she  knew  of  the  vampire's  charms; 

The  vampire's  artful  style; 
The  maddening  lure  of  her  outstretched  arms; 

The  vampire's  serpent  guile. 

Oh,  much  she  had  learned  of  the  vampire's  spell — 

(Which  lures  to  hell's  abyss 
As  many  a  man  has  known  so  well 

As  he  clung  to  the  vampire's  kiss.) 

And  she  who  had  ever  prayed  to  God 

In  an  humble  and  righteous  way. 
And  never  the  primrose  path  had  trod, 

Prepared  to  seek  her  prey. 

But  to  lure  men's  willing  souls  to  hell, — 

Her  purpose  was  none  such : 
'Twas  to  lure  back  the  spouse  whom  she  loved  too  well,- 

To  win  him  from  vampire's  clutch! 


37 


THE  PEDIGREED  LADY 

There  lived  a  plain  man,  and  his  honest  heart  beat 
For  a  pedigreed  lady  whose  fancies  were  fleet ; 
And  he  laid  his  heart  at  his  lady's  feet. 
She  toyed  with  the  heart — 'twas  a  pastime,  sweet ; 
Then  cast  it  away  for  Woe's  hell-hounds  to  eat. 

Now  the  selfsame  lady  lost  her  head 

O'er  a  handsome  rogue  whose  soul  was  dead, 

(A  woman  had  killed  it, — he'd  ceased  to  care 

For  the  beautiful  devil,  so  clever,  so  fair. 

The  havoc  she'd  wrought  had  blanched  his  hair) 

And  she  who  had  toyed  with  the  plain  man's  heart. 

Found  deep  in  her  own  a  poisoned  dart; 

And  the  pedigreed  lady  stooped  as  he  willed, — 

The  handsome  love-pirate  whose  soul  had  been  killed. 

He  found  her — a  lady  enjoying  life's  sweets; 

He  left  her — a  woman  of  the  streets. 

The  virtuous  shunned  her,  the  world  called  her  "Bad!"; 

And,  oh,  how  she  longed  for  that  heart  she  once  had, 

That  honest  heart  she  had  cast  away 

When  she  laughed  men  to  scorn,  ere  she  fell  man's  prey. 

And  the  woman  of  scarlet  breathed  a  prayer: 

"O,  mericiful  God,  let  him  know  and  care!"; 

For  the  woman  of  sin  had  learned  the  worth 

Of  an  honest  heart  on  this  sham-damned  earth. 

But  the  heart  of  the  plain  man  nevermore  beats 

For  the  pedigreed  lady  whom  any  man  greets. 


38 


THE  STAR-ADORNED  ENSIGN,  OLD  GLORY 

The  star-adorned  ensign,  Old  Glory  by  name, 

With  its  stripes  of  bright  silver  and  stripes  of  red  flame- 

Oh,  may  it  triumphantly  wave  evermore 

As  Liberty's  emblem — unsullied,  wave  o'er 

A  nation,  peace-loving,  yet  mighty  in  war! 

Oh,  may  Right  be  upheld,  all  Oppression  be  quelled, 

And  our  mighty  Republic  be  e'er  unexcelled! 

Dauntless  millions,  inspired  with  glorious  zeal, 

Would  die  in  behalf  of  our  country's  weal: 

What  invaders  could  ever  withstand  our  steel! 

The  world  must  respect  the  American  flag; 

Through  the  dust,  in  dishonor,  may  it  never  drag. 

The  loyal  and  brave  resolutely  demand 

That  their  flag  be  respected  in  every  land; 

And  the  loyal  and  brave  will  maintain  their  stand. 

Let  this  edict  be  hurled  to  all  parts  of  the  world : 

That,  in  all  foreign  lands  where  our  flag  is  unfurled. 

An  invincible  nation,  just,  proud  and  free, 

With  army  and  navy,  if  it  must  be, 

Will  protect  all  her  children  from  Tyranny! 


39 


TIME  (Sonnet) 

Time  bows  the  stalwart,  saps  the  limbs*  good  strength, 

And  spins  within  thought's  dome,  the  cobwebs,  dire ; 
Beauty,  despoiled,  doth  haggish  grow  at  length: 

The  human  temple,  ruined  by  Time's  ire! 
If  altars  crumble,  doth  religion,  too? 

The  human  temple  Time  doth  desecrate. 
The  spirit,  though,  will  live  all  aeons  through; 

True  character,  e'er  mock  this  mocker,  great. 
Time  brings  experience,  needed  discipline; 

And  e'en  though  slight,  thy  gain  in  power  to  face 
Responsibility — to  turn  from  sin. 

Thy  soul  hath  been  improved  by  Time's  good  grace! 
Regret  not  thou  the  seasons  as  they  roll ; 
Time  rends  the  garment,  but  he  shapes  the  soul. 


40 


THE  DOG  AND  THE  GOD 

In  ev'ry  man,  so  we  have  heard, 

A  sleeping  dog  abides ; 
In  ev'ry  man,  be  it  averred, 

There  is  a  sleeping  God,  besides. 
Alas!  the  warning,  vicious  bark 

Not  always  doth  awake 
The  sleeping  God ;  he  doth  not  mark 

The  soul  hath  cause  to  quake; 
Else  he  would  silence,  by  his  might, 

The  awakened  brute  ere  it  could  bite. 


41 


ETERNAL  PUNISHMENT 

The  Allwise  One,  who  planned  creation,  knew 

His  little  world,  and  surely  was  aware 
How  man  was  constituted;  so  'tis  true 
That  He  foresaw  what  evil  would  ensue. 

On  some,  'tis  said,  eternal  wrath  will  burst. 

The  Maker,  the  Omniscient  One,  who  knew 
That  unschooled  souls  would  err,  knew  from  the  first 
If  any  being  would  be  so  accurst. 

When  hydra-headed  evil  doth  enmesh 

In  its  drag-net  a  soul,  as  yet,  unfit. 
Will  He,  who  did  create  world,  soul  and  flesh, 
Deny  it  privilege  to  start  afresh? 

He  makes  a  soul,  pre-destined  to  be  lost: 
It  sins  a  little  moment  in  this  world 
And  then  through  countless  aeons  pays  the  cost — 
Down,  down  to  dire  damnation,  justly  toss'd! 

Behold  the  stars!     God  doeth  his  work  well; 

Yet  thinkest  thou  He  did  create  a  soul 
But  to  destroy  it,  or  afflict  with  hell 
Eternally,  because,  unfit,  it  fell? 

Destructive  wrath!    Dost  hear  the  threat,  aghast? 

Oh,  He  that  did  create  us  will  perfect; 
Not  so,  if  dire  damnation,  us,  will  blast; 
Nay,  ev'ry  one  shakes  hands  with  God,  at  last. 

World,  flesh  and  devil  ultimately  school 

Aspiring  man,  still  slave  of  whim  and  sense; 
Awhile  he'll  flounder,  unregenerate  fool, 
But  finally  in  him  the  God  will  rule. 


42 


DOGMAS  AND  CREEDS 

It's  not  what  your  ready  lips  profess, 

It's  your  faith  and  your  life  that  count: 

Your  heart  may  cry  "No"  while  your  lips  say  "Yes" ; 

You  may  curse  in  your  soul  while  your  lying  lips  bless. 
By  your  faith  and  your  life  you  mount! 

It's  by  what  you  have  done  and  omitted  to  do 
You'll  be  judged  at  the  Bar  when  life  is  through. 
Dogmas  and  creeds  are  like  unto  reeds — 
But  acts,  unselfish,  and  worthy  deeds 
Weigh  heavy  in  God's  true  scales; 
A  creed  in  the  balance  but  little  avails. 


43 


FIGHT  ON! 

Though  your  pleasures  are  past;  though  your  lot  is  now 

loathed ; 
Though  your  spirit,  in  old  battered  armor,  is  clothed ; 
Though  life  is  a  torture,  prolonged  by  each  breath, — 
Don't  throw  down  your  cross,  and  seek  refuge  in  death! 
You  have  sinned, — who  has  not  ? — but,  at  times,  you  have 

warred 
With  heroic  zeal,  and,  some  triumphs,  have  scored. 
Your  great  mission  in  life  is  to  gain  moral  strength ; — 
So  do  not  ignobly  surrender  at  length! 
Perhaps,  all  the  dark  ways  of  sin  you  have  trod, 
And  shamelessly  wandered  far,  far  from  your  God, — 
Every  transgression  is  paid  for  in  pain — 
Yet,  having  progressed,  you  have  not  lived  in  vain. 
You  are  wiser,  more  disciplined  than  e'er  before: 
Would  you  give  up  the  struggle, — seek  Acheron's  shore? 
Though  all  worldly  things  that  you  value,  be  lost, 
Yet,  having  progressed,  you  should  not  count  the  cost; 
So  take  up  your  cross,  and  your  journey,  renew ; 
Though  hell  rage  within,  yet  to  Duty  be  true! 
Oh,  grind  your  good  sword  on  Experience's  stone, 
And  draw  a  keen  edge  on  the  Woes  you  have  known, 
And  cut  a  straight  pathway  through  Life's  tangled  wood. 
Fight  on  to  the  goal, — to  superior  manhood! 


44 


WHAT  GOOD  THE  MUSIC  OF  THE  SPHERES? 

What  good  the  odor  of  the  rose,  if  none,  to  smell,  are 
near  it? 

What  good  the  music  of  the  spheres,  if  there  are  none  to 
hear  it? 

And  what's  the  worth  of  Cosmos, — of  Infinitude's  display 

Of  myriad  suns  and  planets — clusters,  dippers.  Milky 
Way, 

Unnumbered  constellations — ah,  tell  me,  what's  their  worth 

Unless  the  Whole  be  peopled,— ^not  just  our  midget- 
earth? 

Wherefore  the  starry  grandeur  underneath  which,  cooped, 
we  crawl. 

Unless  there's  Life  to  sense,  enjoy  and  profit  by  it  all? 

Unless  the  Whole  be  peopled,  who's  to  profit  by  the 
Whole?— 

And  who  enjoy  yon  billion  stars,  as  countless  aeons  roll? 

Are  yon  vast  suns  but  scenery  to  be  enjoyed,  afar, 

By  earth-bound  beings  only,  on  one  microscopic  star? 

What  purpose  serve  the  singing  spheres — ^the  universe, 
sidereal, — 

Unless  to  serve  triumphant  Mind  as  suitable  material  ? 

For  aught  man  knows,  there  are  extant,  on  countless  dis- 
tant spheres, 

Great  races  far  beyond  the  earth's  in  wisdom  and  in  years. 

For  aught  man  knows,  why,  yonder  suns  are  habitats, 
sublime, 

For  high  Intelligences,  foreign  to  a  planet's  clime. 

For  aught  man  knows,  there  beings  are,  possessed  of  life, 
eternal, 

And  free  to  roam  from  star  to  star  and  visit  realms, 
supernal. 


45 


FROM  FISH  TO  MAN,  FROM  CLOD  TO  GOD 

From  fish  to  man, — from  protoplasmic  slime 

To  man's  estate, — oh,  'tis  a  long  hard  climb ; 

For  Aeons  mark  but  mile-stones  in  the  rise 

From  ocean's  floor  to  aeroplane-filled  skies! 

From  first-born  monad  in  the  mother-sea 

Life  traveled  long  ere  reaching  you  and  me. 

And  after  all  the  untold  ages  spent. 

To  what  avail  hath  Life  made  its  ascent 

Through  various  forms,  from  monad  to  proud  man, 

And  seemingly  according  to  a  plan  ? — 

To  end  ignobly  in  six  feet  of  earth 

Which  man  inherits  so  soon  after  birth  ? — 

Hath  Life,  for  this,  evolved  from  ocean's  cave? — 

Doth  Evolution's  path  end  at  man's  grave? 

In  Frail  Mortality,  can  it  be  true 

The  Law  of  Progress  meets  its  Waterloo? 

Is  Dust  the  Alpha  and  Omega,  too? 

If  man's  endowed  with  an  immortal  soul 
And  Godhood  is  the  meet  and  final  goal, 
Then,  all  is  well  that  is  preparatory 
To  ultimate  perfection,  joy  and  glory; 
Then,  purposeful,  man's  earthly  trials  and  strife; 
Then,  death  is  but  an  incident  of  life. 
And  blasted  not  is  all  that  went  before : — 
The  Aeons'  fruits  preserved  forevermore! 

From  clod  to  God, — from  protoplasmic  slime 
To  Fields  Elysian, — 'tis  a  long,  long  climb; 
For  Aeons  mark  but  mile-stones  in  the  rise 
From  ocean's  bottom  to  celestial  skies: 
But  oh,  the  richer  thus,  man's  heritage, — 
The  magic  fruits  of  ev'ry  timeless  age! 


46 


MY  WONDERFUL  SELF  I  AM  PROUD  TO  BE 

This  was  the  song  of  a  little  green  frog 
As,  complacent,  it  sat  on  a  water-soaked  log: 
'^My  wonderful  self  I  rather  would  be 
Than  anything  that  I  ever  did  see, 
For  where  is  the  thing  that  can  out-hop  me!" 

And  this  was  the  song  of  a  poor,  ugly  toad. 

As  it  croaked  in  a  puddle — most  wretched  abode! — 

'*Croak,  ho!     My  environment  is  ideal; 

The  insects  are  plenty  for  many  a  meal." 

And  this  was  the  boast  in  a  lion's  roar 

As  there  dripped  from  the  mighty  beast's  maw,  human 

gore: 
"I'm  king  of  all  beasts ;  crush  me  if  you  can! 
I'm  swifter  than  elephant,  stronger  than  man ; 
My  powerful  self  I  am  proud  to  be. 
For  where  is  the  thing  that  can  vanquish  me!" 

And  this  was  the  boast  in  an  eagle's  scream. 

As  the  lordly  bird  rose  to  the  clouds  agleam : 

"Some  swim  and  some  crawl,  some  walk  and  some  run; 

But  I'm  king  of  the  air,  I  soar  with  the  sun! 

My  wonderful  self  I  am  proud  to  be. 

For  where  is  the  thing  that  can  out-fly  me!" 

The  legs  of  the  frog  graced  a  millionaire's  meal ; 

The  toad,  by  mischance,  was  crushed  under  his  heel ; 

At  the  crook  of  his  finger  the  jungle-king  fell ; 

His  aeroplane  hummed  the  bruised  eagle's  death-knell. 

And  the  conqueror  laughed  a  laugh  of  glee 

When  he  struck  the  old  bird  of  liberty: 

"Ha,  where  is  the  fowl  that  can  out-fly  me!" 

Through  opaline  skies,  above  billows  of  mist. 
As  though  with  effulgent  Old  Sol  to  keep  tryst. 
Swift,  swiftly  the  huge  bird  of  steel  swept  along 

47 


MY  WONDERFUL  SELF  I  AM  PROUD  TO  BE 


And  hummed  to  its  master  a  jubilant  song: 

"On  land  or  in  sky  supreme  man  is  at  home, 

And  under  the  waters  of  earth  may  roam. 

With  lightning-swift  cars  at  his  beck  and  call, 

With  flying  machines 

And  submarines, 

The  earth,  for  his  pleasure,  will  soon  be  too  small." 

And  the  air-pilot  smiled  as  he  thought  of  his  gold — 

Yea,  truly  the  key  to  delights,  manifold! 

(Ah,  many  a  man  while  his  lot  seems  ideal 

Is  destroyed,  by  mischance,  as  the  toad  by  man's  heel!) 

And  the  millionaire  thrilled  to  his  giant  bird's  song, 
As  they  soared  o'er  a  city,  ere  something  went  wrong 
And  the  finis  was  written  in  puddles  of  red 
On  a  junk-littered  pavement  where  lay  the  dead. 


48 


WHO  IS  WHO? 

Who  is  who  in  this  world  of  shams, 

Where  there's  so  much  of  gaudy  glitter; 

Where  two-legged  wolves  parade  as  lambs, 
And  human  vultures  twitter? — 

Where  the  glister  of  gold  imparts  lustre  to  name; 

Where  Favoritism  oft  rules; 
Where  the  rustle  of  silk  may  drown  Guilt's  hiss  of  shame. 

And  Merit's  at  discount — 'mongst  fools. 

Are  the  seats  of  the  mighty  occupied 

By  only  the  race's  best? — 
Ha,  many  as  good,  in  dank  ditches  have  died. 

And  Fortune's  skirt-hem  ne'er  carest! 

Wealth  e'en  exalts  Folly  now  and  again 

So  applause  resounds  over  the  earth! — 
Say,  who  is  who  in  the  world  of  men 

Where  Merit  should  measure  Worth  ? 

Yea,  who  is  who  in  the  world  of  shams. 

Of  tinsel  and  veneer? — 
Ha,  War,  Bloody  War,  howsoever  it  damns. 

Makes  the  Naked  Truth  stand  clear! 


49 


IN  THE  YEARS  AFTER  WE  HAVE  PARTED 

In  the  far  future  years,  my  darling,  long  after  this  dream 
is  o'er; 

In  the  years  after  we  have  parted,  perhaps  to  be  com- 
rades no  more ; 

Will  you  fondly  remember  the  lover  you  smiled  on  in 
days  of  yore? 

In  the  far  distant  future,  my  darling,  when  others  do 

lavish  their  praise ; 
In  the  years  after  we  have  parted,   and  gone  on  our 

separate  ways ; 
Will  you  sometimes  think  of  the  lover  on  whom  you  now 

tearfully  gaze? 

On  the  fateful  night  when  another  makes  bold 
To  sigh,  vow  and  lie,  and  thy  hand  to  hold; 
When  he  swears  by  the  stars  and  the  inconstant  moon 
That  he  doth  adore,  can't  be  wedded  too  soon ; 
When  he  tells  of  affection,  he  feigns  or  he  feels. 
And  o'er  thee,  the  old,  old  madness  steals ; 
And  his  arm  'round  thy  slender  waist  gently  slips, 
And  his  kisses  melt  fervently  on  thy  lips ; — 
Alas,  my  beloved! 

For  thy  present  devoted  lover,  my  darling,  my  life,  wilt 

thou  sigh? 
Will  a  tear  of  dear  recollection  then  form  in  thy  dark, 

lustrous  eye? 
Oh,  I  fear  that  thou  wilt  not  remember  my  kisses  on 

nights  gone  by! 

Through  the  years  of  long,  long  separation,  oh,  can  you 

love  on  just  the  same? 
New  loves  will  console  and  delight  you,  for  others  will 

kindle  the  flame ; 
This  love,  it  may  wither  to  ashes,  and  I,  become  only 

a  name! 


50 


AS  GOLDEN  YEARS  GO  BY 

Once,  dear,  we  loved  each  other, 
But  we,  apart,  were  torn; 

And  have  we  now  forgotten 
That  romance  of  Hfe's  morn? 

Oh,  hearken  to  that  music! 

As  heartward  sinks  that  song, 
Once  more  upon  our  spirits. 

Old  memories  do  throng. 

Years,  had  the  passion  slumbered; 

In  death-like  trance  'twas  wrapped 
An  old  cord  now  is  chiming, — 

A  cord  we  thought  had  snapped. 

Once  more  I  press  you  closely; 

You  smile  and  whisper  low ; 
Love  burns  again  in  your  dark  eyes 

As  it  burned  long  ago. 

With  consecrating  nectar. 
Your  lips  do  mine  baptize; 

And  train  mine  in  a  holy  use ; 
While  eyes  speak  love  to  eyes. 

I  sought  to  learn  of  heaven 
In  saints'  and  sages'  lore; 

But  oh,  in  one  sweet  moment. 
Your  dear  love  taught  me  more. 

"Our  tender  love,  no  power 
Can  e'er  destroy!"  we  vowed; 

But,  oh,  we  had  not  reckoned 
With  time's  eclipsing  cloud! 

But  still  we  love  each  other; 

How  happy,  you  and  I ! 
And  time  shall  bind  us  closer 

As  golden  years  go  by! 


51 


LINES  TO  U— 

Fair  maiden!     Thy  rare  beauty  would  inspire 
The  worthy  poet's  pen,  the  minstrel's  lyre; 
And  doubly  so  if  thou,  to  smile,  wouldst  deign; — 
Unworthy  thee  is  this,  my  humble  strain. 

Eyes,  lips  and  smile !    Those  eyes  alone  can  light 

The  Muse's  torch,  make  poesy  burn  bright. 

Those  lovely  lips!    Alas,  I  can  but  sigh! 

Say, — Cupid  stained  them  with  his  choicest  dye. 

And,  tracing  out  their  beauteous  contour. 

He  cried:   "They're  suited  to  sweet  uses,  sure!" 

Those  scarlet  lips  were  made  to  breathe  love's  strain, 

And  kisses,  on  these  thirsting  lips,  to  rain. 

Is't  wrong  to  call  the  lily,  sweet?   Is't  praise? 

Think  not  that  mine  are  idle  words  to  scorn. 
How  base  the  lark  that  doth,  no  carol,  raise 

To  rising  sun,  which  is  the  smile  of  morn : 
And  more  unworthy,  I,  if  silent  while, 
Mine  eyes  delightedly  behold  thy  smile. 

Were  I  a  bard  whose  verse  would  long  survive 
Thy  loveliness,  and  prove  to  be  the  rage. 

To  celebrate  thy  virtues,  I  would  strive: — 
But  Time  would  soon  obliterate  the  page. 

To  picture  all  thy  charms,  I  shall  not  try. 
Since,  with  the  camera,  verse  can  never  vie. 


52 


SONNETS  TO  B 

Rare  maiden!    thou  musician,  masterly, 

So  lovely  and  so  young, — ^pray  deign  to  hear! 
A  rare,  supernal  power  dwells  in  thee, 

Inspiring  thy  art  till  we  revere. 
No  classic  harp,  nor  lyre  more  classic  still, 

Doth  serve  thy  inspiration,  and  'tis  well; — 
The  good  piano,  touched  by  thy  great  skill. 

Doth  o'er  us  cast  a  more  entrancing  spell. 
Oh,  when  thy  mind  and  lovely  hands  impart 

The  transporting  emotions,  manifold, 
Which  those  symbols  record,  we  know  thou  art 

A  master,  who  interprets  masters,  old. 
But  thou,  by  virtuosos  lauded  high. 
Need  not  my  modest  tribute,  all  too  dry. 

Emotion's  realm,  sweet  music  doth  o'er  sway : 

It  calms  the  staring  madman  in  his  rage; 
The  murd'rous  hand  of  Saul,  the  harp  did  stay; 

And  music  makes  some  caper  on  Life's  stage ; 
While  by  its  martial  tones,  straw  nerves  are  brassed ; 

Sad  strains  make  haughty  eyes,  their  tears  to  spill; 
When  naught  lures  us  to  live,  and  hope  is  passed. 

Why,  music  thrills,  when  naught  we  deemed  could  thrill. 
Now,  some  must  play  what  geniuses  have  penned, — 

Interpret  and  impart  their  rapturous  madness; 
How  glorious,  then,  the  art  that  serves  this  end ; 

And  such  as  thou  canst  give  the  world  much  gladness. 
So,  sweet  musician,  may  thy  sphere  expand 
Till  thou  art  celebrated  o'er  all  the  land! 

In  thee,  what  charm  and  radiance  combine! 

Thy  loveliness  doth  plead  its  own  sweet  cause ; 
Admiring  eyes  pay  homage;  'tis  a  shrine 

Where  incense  will  be  burned, — but  I  must  pause, 
Lest  thy  dear  modesty  be  sore  oppressed : — 

With  comely  raiment  is  thy  soul  endowed; 
Thy  smile  is  sunshine  to  the  woe-chilled  breast ; 

53 


SONNETS  TO  B- 


A  moonbeam,  prisoned  in  a  silver  cloud, 
Thy  spirit  is.    But  harken,  I  implore, 

And  heed  me  well :   ne'er  let  thy  industry, 
'Gainst  health  and  loveliness,  wage  cruel  war! 

With  e'er  increasing  beauties,  God  bless  thee! 
Preserve  and  guard  thy  charms ;  they  please  no  less 
Than  doth  the  wondrous  talent  you  possess. 

Sweet  lilies,  on  rank  cactus,  do  not  grow; 

And  star-beams  have  a  high  celestial  source; 
And  from  thy  sweetness,  and  thy  life,  we  know 

Thy  character  hath  nobleness  and  force. 
What  moral  beauties,  all,  adorn  thy  mind; 

What  noble  passions,  in  thy  bosom,  swell ; — 
Thou,  being  strange,  I  have  not  all  divined, — 

And  yet  the  crystal  tone  denotes  the  bell. 
When  some  entrancing  strain  doth  greet  the  ear; 

Or  when  the  nightingale  sings  us  a  score, 
Th'  entire  melody,  we  long  to  hear ; 

And  we  are  grieved  if  we  can  hear  no  more: 
Thou  art  the  melody,  and  having  heard 
Some  sundry  strains,  by  all  I  would  be  stirred. 


54 


LINES  TO  MADAME  GRISELDA 

Madame  Griselda,  songstress,  great! 

The  laurels  do  entwine  thine  honored  name ; 
Loud  plaudits,  thou  hast  heard  reverberate 

In  many  lands,  and  royalty  acclaim. 
Thy  glorious  gift,  by  God  was  given ; 
No  music  instrument  'neath  heaven 

Hath  such  sweet  sorcery; 
Thine,  was  not  shaped  by  human  hand; 
But  God  and  thou  have  made  it  grand : 

Both  praised  be. 

With  noble  mien,  and  graceful  ease. 

The  "woman  maestro"  doth  appear,  and  lol 
Her  outward  charms  do  greatly  please. 

The  strains  begin — the  lights  but  dimly  glow ; 
Her  'witching  cadence  greets  the  ear; 
Behold!    the  audience,  rapt,  doth  hear, 

Delighted  by  each  note : 
To  move  the  soul,  what  power  hath  song! 
Vast  numbers — see!  weak  hearts  and  strong, 

Swayed  by  one  sweet  throat. 

Thee,  songstress!     I  will  not  compare 
With  heavenly  lark  that  sings  in  air, 

Or  clings  to  leafy  stem; 
Not  with  the  peerless  nightingale. 
That  sings,  divine,  its  lovely  tale, — 

'Twould,  too  much,  honor  them : 
With  such  rapt  pleasure,  ne'er  we  hark 
To  nightingale  or  heavenly  lark; 
To  make  as  pensive  or  as  gay. 
Bird  ne'er  was  born,  that  had  a  way. 

Song  Sorceress!    what  power  thou  hast, 

Old  memories,  in  us,  to  raise! 
Once  more  they  surge,  as  we  behold  the  past; 

Once  more  emotion's  dying  embers  blaze! 

55 


LINES  TO  MADAME  GRISELDA 


Perchance,  some  lover's  shade  doth  rise, — 
Behold  the  lips,  the  smile,  the  eyes! 

Their  sorcery  did  one  enthrall, 
And  promise,  give,  of  endless  bliss. 
Till  something,  somehow,  went  amiss, 

And  ruined  all. 

Thy  strains  make  us  remember, 

Perhaps,  a  tender  joy 
That,  long  ago,  did  perish, — 

A  sweet  without  alloy; 
Perhaps  a  secret  anguish. 
We  thought  had  calloused  o'er, 
(Which  we  would  ne'er  recall,  again) 

Is  made  to  burn  once  more. 

"Ave  Marie,"  thou  didst  sing; 

'Twas  not  so  much  the  song 

That  caused  the  happy  tears  to  spring, 

As  thy  voice  rose  clear  and  strong; 
That  caused  the  heart,  in  the  throat,  to  swell, 
A  sweet  emotion,  upward,  well ; — 

But  thy  entrancing  voice, 
And  thy  success,  that  cast  the  spell : 

I  did  rejoice. 

One  who  hath  toiled  and  struggled  hard. 
Whose  character,  trials  have  not  marred, 

And  who  hath,  victory,  won; 
Who  charms  and  edifies  the  mind, 
Amuses  and  uplifts  mankind, — 

Hath,  nobly,  done. 

But  ev'ry  song  hath  ending. 

And  ev'ry  swan  must  die; 
And  glory,  sometime,  must  belong 

To  days  that  have  gone  by. 
The  wreath  of  fame  may  wither,    . 

The  star  of  glory,  set; 

56 


LINES  TO  MADAME  GRISELDA 


But  there  is  one  fresh  garland, 

Eternal  dews  will  wet: 
And  thou  hast  wreathed  this  garland ; 

Thy  soul  it  doth  adorn, — 
It  is  thy  noble  womanhood, 

'Twill  bloom  till  Judgment  Mom. 


67 


SENTIMENT 
HUMOR 
TRUTH 
AND 

NONSENSE 


THE  LAMENT  OF  A  BENEDICT 

Love's  a  flower  on  a  bramble; 

Getting  married  is  a  gamble ; 

Matrimony  is  joy's  essence — if  you  like  an  uphill  scramble. 

Whether  you  win  her  or  you  buy  her, 
Matrimony  is  a  "flier;" 

It's  the  means  of  changing  many  a  man  into  a  first-class 
liar. 

It's  giving  up  a  score 

Just  for  one  whom  you  adore; 

It's  testing  your  digestion, 

As,  beyond  all  doubt  and  question, 

You  have  never,  never,  never,  never  tested  it  before. 

It's  the  end  of  losing  sleep, 
Bdfled  by  the  mystery,  deep. 

Of  how  to  win  your  idol,   (who  was  wild  to  take  the 
leap  I) 

It's  the  end  of  telling  lies 
About  your  idol's  eyes ; 

It's  the  end  of  kissing  the  Blarney  stone;  its  throwing 
off  disguise. 

It's  disdaining  to  refuse 
Wife,  the  gold-cure  for  her  "blues ;" 
It's  the  end  of  kneeling  at  her  feet  except — to  lace  her 
shoes. 

It's  drinking  ginger  ale 

When  you  want  a  stiff  cocktail; 

It's  longing  for  the  freedom  that  a  man  enjoys  in  jail. 

It's  "Farewell"  to  flying  corks ; 

It's  cleaning  knives,  spoons,  forks; 

It's  having  dreadful  visions  of  a  multitude  of  storks! 


61 


WATERTANK  STATION. 

Have  you  ever  been  held  captive  in  a  God-saken  land, 
By  Misfortune,  Fate  or  Business,  till  you  scarcely  could 

withstand 
Nature's  urge  to  some  excitement,  maybe,  pleasures  that 

are  banned? 

Ever  been  a  discontented,  half -demented  prisoner 
In  a  little  town  called  Boreville,  where  but  Gossip  is  astir, 
And  where  nothing  of  great  moment  ever  did  or  will 
occur  ? — 

Where  the  natives'  chief  diversion  is  to  see  the  trains  pass 

through ; 
Where  the  only  pretty  women  who  could  draw  a  sigh 

from  you. 
All,  are  in  the  double  harness  and,  of  course,  therefore 

taboo  ? — 

Where  life  ever  in  the  same  old  channels  evenly  does  flow ; 
Where  the  winds  of  heaven  seldom  in  a  new  direction 

blow; 
Where  you  can't  go  to  the  devil,  as  you  have  no  chance 

to  go? 

Lived  in  Boreville  ten  years? — ^Well,  then,  when  with 

Death  you've  kept  your  date, 
And  you  stand  in  fear  and  trembling,  knocking  at  the 

golden  gate, — 
Just  recall  you  lived  in  Boreville  and  can  bear  'most  any 

fate! 

And  when  venerable  Peter  asks  you  why  you  should 

pass  in, 
Mention  those  ten  years  in  Boreville,  and  though  dark 

your  trail  with  sin, 
When  the  ghastly  truth  dawns  on  him  he  will  surely 

sigh,  "You  win!" 


62 


DONT  HEED  THE  LURE  OF  LITTLE  THINGS 

When  running  down  a  deer, 

If  small  game  doth  appear, 

Don't  leave  the  big  buck's  trail 

To  chase  a  cottontail, 

Else,  to  bring  home  the  venison,  you  probably  will  fail. 

Observe  this  rule  in  life 
In  searching  for  a  wife ; 
In  business  do  the  same. 
Or  in  pursuit  of  Fame: — 

Don't  heed  the  lure  of  little  things  when  tracking  down 
"big  game." 


63 


IF  YOU'RE  FIGHTING  LIKE  A  TROJAN 

» 
If  you're  fighting  like  a  Trojan  with  your  back  against 

the  wall; 
And  the  odds  are  all  against  you,  and  it  seems  that  you 

must  fall; 
And  your  weather  ear  is  cocked  to  hear  the  dreaded 

Final  Call; — 
If  no  other  way  is  left  you,  why,  you  possibly  can  "stall," 
And  escape  at  least  with  some  skin,  if  you  can't  escape 

with  all. 

If  Fate  has  you  in  the  "sweat  box,"  and  it  seems  you're 

sweating  blood ; 
And  you  think  how  sweet  to  perish  in  a  fire  or  a  flood, 
Or  among  man-eating  crocodiles  in  Amazonian  mud; — 
Just  sweat  and  keep  on  sweating,  just  suffer,  watch  and 

wait; 
There  is  no  chance  for  "stalling,"  for  you  can't  fool  Fate. 


64 


TOASTS  OF  A  CYNIC 

Oh,  here's  to  Love,  the  nightingale ; — 
Or,  rather,  I  should  say,  a  whale 
That  swallows,  thus,  the  dove  of  peace,  nor  e'en  casts  up 
the  tail! 

Oh,  here's  to  Love!    and,  if,  by  Jove! 

You  would  call  love  a  bird. 
Don't  call  it  "lark,"  don't  call  it  "dove," 

As  that  is  quite  absurd : 
No  bird  except  the  ostrich 

Would  continue  in  fine  fettle 
Upon  a  daily  bill  of  fare 

Composed  of  "precious  metal." 

Oh,  here's  to  Fame! — a  song  bird,  sweet, 
That  sings  divinely  at  one's  feet 
When  one's  a  peaceful  skeleton  and  can't  enjoy  the  treat. 

Here's   godspeed   to  the   husband-hunter, 

Who's  all  out  of  luck; 
Oh,  may  she  find  a  golden  goose 

Whose  feathers  she  can  pluck; 
And  when  she's  plucked  the  feathers 

May  her  nest  be  so  well  lined,  * 
That  she  won't  have  to  search  again, 

Another  goose,  to  find. 

^         H^         ^         ^         ;]:         ^ 

Here's  to  the  beautiful  lady! — 

Ravishing  work  of  art ; 
Supreme  masterpiece  of  the  tailor; 

Pride  of  the  hairdresser's  heart ; 
The  skilled  dentist's  crowning  glory; 

The  painter's  last  letter  in  fame;^ 
Oh,  flourish  the  arts  that  have  made  her 

Putting  crude  nature  to  shame! 


65 


IN  QUEST  OF  A  WIFE, 

Long,  had  our  worthy  Don  Quixote 

Lived  a  lonesome  life 
In  land  of  sage-brush  and  coyote, — 

Lived  without  a  wife. 

"My  kingdom  for  a  horse!"  once  roared 
King  Richard,  brandishing  his  sword: 
Our  hero  waved  his  purse  and  cried, 
"My  many  acres  for  a  bride." 

He'd  get  a  wife  by  "hook  or  crook," — 
The  lonesome  wretch  was  frantic; 

He'd  get  a  wife  who'd  milk  and  cook, 
And  make  life  romantic. 


Bold  and  persistent  was  our  hero ; 

Several  declared, 
His  morals  were  like  those  of  Nero, 

But  they  slightly  erred. 

He  would  hasten  to  the  city, 

Where  his  record  was  unknown; 

And,  being  artful,  shrewd  and  witty, 
He  would  make  some  girl  his  own. 

When  the  bold  blade  reached  the  city. 
His  hopes  were  running  high; 
That  night,  in  bed,  he  sang  a  ditty. 
Which  was  all  a  He : — 


"I  left  behind  me  many  girls 
Who  always  liked  to  kiss  me; 

They  are  worth  their  weight  in  pearls, 
And  I  am  sure  they  miss  me." 

66 


IN  QUEST  OF  A  WIFE 


In  dance  halls  he  began  his  quest, 

Soon  met  a  charming  lady; 
Loved  her  greatly,  though  he  guessed 

Her  past  was  somewhat  shady. 

He  recalled  romantic  days, 

Recalled  old  escapades. 
Recalled  that  his  bold,  artful  ways 

Had  often  charmed  young  maids. 

Reflecting  with  exquisite  pride 

That  he,  the  artful  sinner. 
Usually  conquered  when  he  tried, 

He  thought  that  he  could  win  her. 

They  dined  together,  wined  together, 
And,  at  times,  'twas  doubtful  whether 
She  could  have  been  more  tightly  pressed 
Against  her  ardent  wooer's  breast. 

His  new  love  listened  to  his  ravings. 
Took  the  ring  when  he  proposed ; 

Helped  him  spend  his  hard-earned  savings, 
And  when  spent, — ^the  romance  closed. 

The  persistent  one  insisted 

That  they  really  were  engaged; 

Hugged  her,  too,  though  she  resisted. 
And  the  siren  was  enraged. 

His  cheek,  the  furious  beauty  smote. 

And  savage  words  did  issue 
From  her  dev'lish  pretty  throat, 

"I  nevermore  will  kiss  you!" 

Then  the  jilted  one  demanded 

That  she  give  him  back  his  ring; 

Seized  her,  and  to  him,  she  handed 
WilHngly,  the  little  thing. 

67 


IN  QUEST  OF  A  WIFE 


The  bachelor  has  left  the  city, 
Almost  empty  is  his  purse ; 

He  does  not  sing  a  sweet  love  ditty ,- 
He  can  only  curse. 

Ten  double  eagles,  had  our  hero, 
Paid  for  that  engagement  ring; 

He's  as  bloodthirsty  as  Nero, — 
He  got  back  a  bogus  thing. 


68 


THE  DESERT  RAT 

The  shades  of  eve  lengthened.    The  "desert  rat," 

ScowHng  and  growling,  wearily  sat 

On  the  cold,  dusty  steps  of  stone. 

In  front  of  a  skyscraper,  sat  there  alone. 

"An  idiot's  caper,"  he  said  with  a  groan, 

"To  seek  joy  in  a  city  where  I  am  unknown. 

I've  stood  it  a  week,  and  I'm  ready  to  go 

Back  to  the  land  of  coyote  and  crow. 

Got  up  before  daylight — did  it  from  habit — 

Chased  pleasure  each  day,  but  have  failed  to  nab  it; 

'Tisn't  so  hard  to  run  down  a  jack-rabbit. 

I  have  walked  the  hard  streets  till  my  calves  are  sore ; 

I  have  downed  a  few  drinks  and  don't  want  any  more. 

I  am  sick  of  the  stenches,  the  noise  and  turmoil, 

The  sights  and  the  lights.    Back,  back  to  the  soil! 

I  am  going  back  to  my  old  stamping  ground. 

Where  wind-swept  sand  dunes  and  yucca  abound ; 

Where  rattlesnakes,  buzzards  and  wild  dogs  are  found. 

And  it's  better  to  be 

In  their  company 

Than  with  some  of  the  crooks  that  you  meet  and  see ; — 

Coyotes  are  snarling,  but  harmless,  things; 

The  rattler  gives  warning  before  it  stingS: 

Hats  off  to  coyotes  and  buzzards  and  vermin! 

Their  methods  supply  a  good  text  for  a  sermon: — 

They'll  not  prey  upon  you  till  after  you're  dead. 

And  your  hones  are  then  worthless  to  you,  be  it  said. 

So  back  to  the  realm  where  Dame  Nature  is  queen ; 

Where,  at  night,  all  the  stars  in  the  skies  can  be  seen ; 

Back  to  the  region  where  Mesert  rats'  dwell! 

I  call  it  God's  country,  some  call  it — oh,  well. 

The  desert,  I  guess,  has  me  under  its  spell. 

Through  the  years  I  have  changed  to  a  ^desert  rat;' 

And,  when  home  again,  I  will  toss  up  my  hat 

With  a  yelp  of  sheer  joy  as  a  'desert  rat'  should ; 

Why,  even  the  carrion,  there,  will  smell  good." 


SPEAK  THE  TRUTH,  SHAME  THE  DEVIL 

Speak  the  truth,  shame  the  devil,  and  bravely  confess 
That  you  love  a  sweet  kiss  and  a  thrilling  caress. 
Ah,  kiss  while  you  may,  before  age,  the  abhored. 
Wrinkles  your  cheek  and  wrecks  beauty,  adored, — 
Else  you  may  regret  opportunities,  missed, 
When  you  think  of  the  times  when  you  might  have  been 
kissed. 


70 


TO  MY  OLD  GIRL 

Here's  future  joy  to  my  old  girl, 
Up-to-date,  hard-to-hold  girl. 

Who  heeded  the  lure  of  gold; 
The  girl  with  the  heart  that  grew  cold ; 
Whom  another  doth  now  enfold 
In  his  good  strong  arms; 
My  old  girl, 
Up-to-date,  hard-to-hold  girl. 

With  the  irresistible  charms! 


71 


IT  PAYS  TO  KNOW 

It  pays  to  know  just  what  you  know ; 

When  not  to  give  advice; 
Which  man  to  trust  within  your  reach ; 

Which  man  has  not  his  price. 
To  know  just  when  to  ask  yourself 

If  it  is  as  is  said; 
To  know  just  when  to  beHeve  the  world 

Or  believe  yourself  instead. 

It  pays  to  look  for  virtue's  pearls 
Before  you  choose  your  mate, — 

Although,  a  wealth  of  ocean's  pearls. 
You  might  deem  richer  bait. 

It  pays  to  know  that  Prince  Fat  Purse 

Who  preys  upon  the  poor. 
Then  gives  a  mite  to  charity 

In  hopes  thus  to  secure 
A  jeweled  crown  in  paradise, — 

Lord! — when  he  tries  to  enter, 
His  hopes  will  disappear  in  smoke 

Somewhere  near  Hades'  center. 


72 


THE  FALLING  OUT 

Ill-fated  falling  stars,  above! 
A  luckless  lover's  falling  in  love, 

Inevitably  is  checked, 
When  one's  dear  idol  falls  in  one's  esteem 
The  shock  awakes  him  from  his  dream ; 

His  golden  hopes  are  wrecked. 

Then  comes  the  lover's  falling  out 
With  Cupid,  who  begins  to  pout. 

And  straightway  takes  to  wing; — 
But  rhymsters  never  rave  about 
This  dull,  prosaic  ''falling-out," 

So  I've  no  more  to  sing. 


73 


LOVELY  BELLE  OF  SOCIETY 

Ah,  yes,  lovely  belle  of  society, 

Sweet  creature  of  goodness  and  piety! 

We  know  that  you  love  a  variety, 

And  hanker  for  suitors,  galore; 
And  'tis  in  the  bounds  of  propriety 

To  be  blessed  with  a  dozen  score: 
But  oh,  lovely  creature  of  piety! 
Relieve  one  poor  devil's  anxiety, 
Make  him  believe  you  prefer  his  society, 
Suppress  your  great  love  for  variety, 
(All  this  will  insure  his  sobriety) 

And  he  will  adore  you  far  more. 


74 


THOUGH  THE  RICH  MAN  MAY  NOT  ENTER 
HEAVEN 

Though  the  rich  man  may  not  enter  heaven, 

However  so  hard  he  may  try, 
With  any  more  ease  than  a  camel  can  squeeze 

Through  some  kind  of  a  needle's  eye; — 

The  biblical  statement  in  question 
Implies  not,  that,  had  he  been  poor, 

He  would  have  to  strain  less,  or  meet  with  success. 
Some  paupers  would  not  I  am  sure. 

Though  the  rich  who  seek  entrance  to  heaven, 

May  elsewhere  be  hurried,  pellmell, 
Be  that  as  it  may,  'tis  certain  I  say, 

That  the  poor  in  this  life  get  hell. 

Now,  wealth,  rightly  used,  is  a  blessing. 

Poverty  oft  is  a  curse ; — 
Don't  remain  poor  because  loath  to  endure 

Damnation,  you  fear  may  be  worse. 


75 


IT  MATTERS  NOT 

It  matters  not  what  you  once  could  pay ; 

Nor  how  much  you  squandered  along  Life's  way ; — 

You're  the  next  thing  to  nothing,  if  broke  today. 

It  matters  not  if  the  goose  once  hung  high; 

And  your  limit  in  poker  was  the  sky: — 

You  can't  bank  on  the  past, — no  chips  will  it  buy. 

It  matters  not  what  you  were  at  one  time ; 
Nor  how  wild  your  life  in  your  golden  prime : — 
It's  being  "all  in"  that  is  the  crime. 


76 


DO  IT  AGAIN 

If  you  have  divided  your  last,  stale  crust 
With  a  comrade  you  honor  and  love  and  trust; 
If  you  have  lived  true  to  friendship's  dear  pledge, 
Though  the  sacrifice  brought  you  near  the  grave's  edge 
And  you  meet  him  years  later  and  he  is  rich, — 
He's  in  the  purple  and  you're  in  the  ditch; 
And  he  doubly  repays  you  and  merits  your  trust 
By  giving  a  whole  for  that  former  half  crust : — 
Why,  then,  if  you'd  be  a  real  man  among  men, 
Just  save  the  new  crust  and  divide  again. 


77 


DUTCHES   NEWSPAPER  VENTURE 
UND  LUF  AFFAIR 

Some  time  ago  I  settled  here, 
In  dis  pig  town  ver  folks  are  qveer ; 
Und  I  did  vun  most  foolish  caper — 
Ach!    I  started  vun  newspaper! 
I  published  gossip  vot  vas  nice, 
While  trinking  peer,  so  cool  as  ice ; 
Und  Gott!    I  printed  her  yust  tvice. 
Vy  did  I  chuck  her,  then,  und  leave  ? — 
Der  reason,  any  vun  can  believe: 
Der  vere  so  many  gossips  here, 
Ver  almost  evrytings  is  qveer — 
Alt  vimen  gossips  vot  ve  fear — 
Dot  newspaper,  she  had  no  sale, — 
Der  news,  pefore  I  print,  vas  stale. 

I  had  in  town  vun  luf  affair, 
Vich  gave  me  vun  supreme  despair. 
Bah!     I  haf  huge  revenge  to  get. 
For  gossip  vot  qveered  all  tings  yet; 
It  qveered  dot  newspaper  so  qvick. 
It  makes  me  almost  drei  veeks  sick. 

I  had  vun  parrot; — dot  qveer  bird 

Talked  poetrys  vich  she  vunce  heard. 

Mein  freund,  now  mit  der  great  Dutch  nation, 

Gabe  dot  bird  vun  education. 

He  wrote  poetics — he  was  shmart, 

Und  taught  dot  bird  poetic  art ; 

Und  now  I  tell  some  secrets, — see? — 

'Twas  Polly  bird  vich  started  me. 

I  lufed  vun  girl  mit  golden  hair. 
Some  vimen  here  gabe  me  despair; — 
Dey  said  she  vas,  mit  me,  proposed; 
Vun  man  said  so, — hees  eye  vent  closed. 
Says  I ;  "I  vill  be  her  protector. 


78 


DUTCHY'S   NEWSPAPER  VENTURE 


Teach  der  peoples  to  respect  her. 
It  vud  gieb  her  vun  great  dismay 
To  know  just  vat  die  vimen  say." 
Her  hair  vas  golden  like  der  carrot ; 
After  her,  I  named  dot  parrot. 

Mein  lonesome  freund  say:   "Loan  me  Polly, 

Maybe  she  vill  make  me  jolly." 

I  loaned  him  Polly — Ach,  I  mean 

Die  Polly  bird,  not  Polly  qveen. 

Vun  veek  he  brought  back  Polly  bird; 

Py  Himmel!     Vot  vas  it  I  heard! 

Dot  parrot  vas  vun  holy  terror — 

She  vas  vun  almighty  shwarer! 

Dar  vas  to  be  vun  gala  tance; 
I  jumped  at  dis,  vun  lifetime  chance. 
I  took  Fraulein,  mit  golden  hair; — 
Denk  I,  venn  musics  fill  die  air 
I  vill  implore  mein  luf  affaire. 
Ach  Gott!     Dot  vas  vun  lufely  tance! 
Fraulein  und  I  vere  in  lufe's  trance ; 
Ve  cuddle  close,  denn  glide  und  yhirl 
Ven  someone  says:   "Hello  old  girl! 

Ho,  ho,  py  Golly, 

Pretty  Polly, 

Dutchy  lufs  you,  ho,  py  golly!" 
Dot  parrot,  perched  on  vun  high  rafter 
Yelled  und  shvore  und  chuckled  laughter. 
Ach,  she  vas  vun  holy  terror — 
She  vas  vun  almighty  shwarer! 

All  ears  vere  strained  upon  der  floor; 
Vot  food  for  gossip !    Out  came  more : 
Dot  uphigh,  hateful  demon  yells : 
"Dutchy  lufs  her,  ring  der  bells! 
Everybody's  telling  it, 
Heard  der  Dutchman  yelling  it." 

79 


DUTCHY'S   NEWSPAPER  VENTURE 

Und  Polly — I  mean  Polly  girl, 

Mein  rosebud,  mein  vun  priceless  pearl, 

Down  fell  in — -vat  it  is? — vun  swoon. 

I  yelled  at  Polly,  "Liar,  loon. 

You  haf  alreaty  killed  her  yet; 

I  break  der  neck  ven  you  I  get!" 

"Ho,  luf  und  peer  und  sauerkraut, 
Der  Dutchman  can  not  lif  mitout," 
Dot  green  nightmare  vas  heard  to  shout. 
Mein  freund  had  told  dot  fiend  mit  vings, 
Mein  confidence — told  everytings. 

I  vas  disgraced,  und  Fraulein,  too 

She  vas  mit  me  forever  thru! 

She  denk  I  taught  mein  bird  dot  stuff, 

Und  'tvas  no  use  to  tell  mein  luf. 

Mein  freund  had  qveered  all  tings,  py  Golly! 

Py  der  gossips  mit  dot  Polly. 


80 


POEMS 

OF 
YOUTH 


LINES  TO  SHELLEY 

Hail,  hail  to  thee,  great  poet! 

Thou  who  wert  borne  amain, 
On  Inspiration's  wings. 

To  some  empyreal  plain, 

And,  on  mankind,  didst  priceless  treasures  rain. 

Drowned  in  the  lake  you  loved,      d^   f^ra^    d/ioun^^  -^ 
Drowned  in  Geneva  Lake;  ^  yyiveiitii/iJ^"^'-*^ 

Oh,  you  who  stirred  mankind,  ''^ 

And  truths,  immortal,  spake. 
Did  disappear  as  though  a  mere  snow-flake. 

Thy  poor  wave-lashed  remains 

At  length,  were  dashed  ashore ; 
And  soon,  on  Pisa's  sand, 

Cremated  was  thy  corse : 

Thy  early  doom,  the  world  will  e'er  deplore. 

Deplorable  it  is 

That  oft,  the  truly  great, — 
The  ones  that  help  mankind. 

Are  early  claimed  by  Fate, 

While  many  knaves  and  fools,  too  long,  must  wait. 

Thine  ashes  have  their  tomb 

In  Rome,  eternal  Rome; 
But  in  the  heart  of  man 

Thy  poetry  hath  home: 

It  lives,  thou  perished  in  Geneva's  foam. 

Great  poet,  "Heart  of  hearts!" 

I  seem  to  know  thee  well ; 
Though  we  did  never  meet, 

A  friend,  in  me,  doth  dwell : 

I  know  thyself,  if  not  thy  earthly  shell. 


85 


JUNE 

Sweet  morn  in  June!    The  verdant  world 
Is  one  bird-haunted  wilderness 

Of  blossoms,  leaves, — all  dew-impearled. 
Which  perfume-laden  winds  caress. 

Day's  ball  of  fire,  mounting  higher, 
Flashes  forth  its  glorious  beams 

From  a  sky  of  deep  sapphire. 

And  floods  a  wond'rous  land  of  dreams. 

The  bird  sings  loud  its  happy  song. 
And  courts  its  mate;  the  time  of  love 

It  is,  and  gold-winged  bees  now  throng; 
Creation  sings,  below, — above: — 

The  breezes  murmur  through  the  grass ; 

The  earth  one  happy  song  doth  raise; 
The  unseen  stars  high  o'er  us  pass. 

And,  to  the  maker,  sing  their  praise. 


86 


THE  LILY 

The  lily  swings  her  snowy  bells ; 

For  Christ's   departure,   still,   she  grieves; 
She  droops,  as  holy  grief  compels, 

While  dewy  tears  gleam  on  her  leaves : 
Her  silv'ry  bells,  as  they  slowly  swing, 
Would  chime  a  hymn,  could  they  but  ring. 


87 


TO  A  DEAD  ROSEBUSH 

My  Climbing  Rose!     high  didst  thou  wind 
O'er  leafy  porch,  and  spreadest  'round 

Thy  limbs,  with  golden  vines  entwined; — 
Thy  leaves  lie  withered  on  the  ground. 

My  rosebush!    when  thou  wert  in  bloom, 
Ev'ry  breeze,  that  near  thee  sped. 

Thou  didst  enrich  with  sweet  perfume; 
But,  now,  alas,  my  bush  thou'rt  dead! 

Mournful  music,  now,  I  hear 

Whispering  through  thy  branches,  bare; 
E'en  the  breezes  held  thee  dear: 

Good  night  sweet  bush,  good  night  fore'er! 

*        *        :jc        *        sic         5(t 

When  roses  and  green  leaves  adorned 
My  sweet  rosebush,  birds  nested  there; 

But  by  these  sweet- winged  joys  'tis  scorned, 
Now,  that  it's  desolate  and  bare. 

And,  so,  a  life,  not  beautified 

With  any  love,  is  bare  and  bleak; 

And  sweet  joys  can  not,  there  abide ; 
It  is  a  thing,  they  do  not  seek. 


THE  ROBIN'S  COURTSHIP 

A  songster,  blithe,  sat  in  a  tree. 

"  'Tis  mating  season,  dear,"  sang  he, 

It  was  a  robin  on  a  limb ; 

A  glorious  song  was  sung  by  him. 

A  robin  maid,  a  lovely  thing, 
Delighted,  heard  her  wooer  sing; 
And  hoped  his  tuneful  eloquence 
Expressed  the  truth  and  not  pretense. 

As  sweet  desire  in  her  woke. 
She  tried  by  manner  to  invoke 
More  ardor,  and  he  plead  the  more ; 
How  sweet  to  hear  the  male  implore  I 

Oh,  how  he  praised  that  lovely  form. 
That  brilliant  breast,  that  heart  so  warm, 
Her  modesty,  her  sweet  birdhood; — 
She  was  the  best  in  all  the  wood. 

"Oh,  be  my  mate!  Thou  art  my  choice. 
And  that  'tis  so  thou  shouldst  rejoice; 
My  treatment  will  be  always  tender ; — 
Dearest  queen,  please,  please  surrender!" 

But,  being  wooed  did  so  entrance  her 
That  she  still  withheld  her  answer; 
His  courting,  she  would  fain  prolong, 
So  thrilled  she  was,  by  love's  sweet  song. 

"Oh,  robin,  dear!   I'll  give  thee  rest 
By  keeping  warm  the  eggs  in  nest; 
I'll  find  the  food,  and  will  not  ask 
My  robin-love  to  do  that  task. 

89 


THE  ROBIN'S  COURTSHIP 


"And  ev'ry  morn  at  break  of  day 
I'll  sing  to  thee  a  roundelay; 
And  many  pleasures  will  be  thine, 
My  dearest  one,  if  thou'U  be  mine. 

"My  love  is  genuine,  intense ; 
Now,  kindly  end  my  great  suspense! 
Will  we  be  mates  ?    Do  answer,  'Yes,' 
Else  you  will  wreck  my  happiness!" 

Her  answer  came  melodiously: 
"Oh,  Rob,  I  know  'twas  mean  of  me 
To  keep  you  guessing,  but,  my  dear. 
Your  sweet  appeals,  I  loved  to  hear. 

"I  believe  your  eloquent,  sweet  tongue 
Did  not  deceive,  else  heart. were  wrung. 
My  heart,  your  strains  did  penetrate ; 
Yes,  dearest,  I  will  be  your  mate." 

A  rustle!   but  they  hear  no  sound, — 
Their  thoughts  are  high  above  the  ground. 
Again,  an  ominous,  slight  noise. 
And  now  appear  two  cruel  boys. 

A  barrel,  bright,  is  seen  to  flash, — 
Oh,  lovers,  lovers,  why  so  rash? 
Oh,  can't  you  see? — Awake,  take  heed! 
Oh  your  pure  hearts  will  surely  bleed. 

There,  hurry,  fly!    Ah,  birds,  alack! 
A  cruel  smile,  and  then  a  crack; 
A  piteous  sound,  and  then — a  thud, 
A  twitching  form  is  in  the  mud. 

He  gasps,  he  pants,  he  writhes  in  pain, 
Nor  can  he  breathe  a  dying  strain, — 
A  last  adieu  to  her  on  high. 
Who  sees  her  lover  writhe  and  die. 

90 


THE  ROBIN'S  COURTSHIP 


A  lone  bird  sits,  bedazed  with  grief; 
That  he  is  dead — ^too  sad  for  belief! 
Oh,  future  joys, — a  phantom's  kiss! 
Death  and  woe  instead  of  bliss! 

She  gazes  at  that  breast  of  red, — 
Her  heart  is  broken,  she  is  dead. 
She  falls  into  the  life  blood  of 
Her  robin-mate,  her  red-breast  love. 


THE  END. 


91 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNL 
BERKELEY 

THIS  BOOK  IS  DUT^  '^^^^^^^'^  ''^''^ 
STAMPED  BELOW 

Books  not  returned  on  ti^e  are  -^jec^t  ^o.^a^  fi^^^^^ 
50c  per  volume  after  tje  ^ird  <iaj^               gooks  not  m 
•a"e£„7ra^-;tZefe^nSl^'.^oi'  is  made  .efo.e 
"niration  of  loan  Per.od.  = 


WAai3l9^d 


50m-7.'16 


YB   12259 


